


Metaphorical tortures

by luna_cheshire



Category: Bubble Comics, Комиксы Bubble, Майор Гром | Major Thunder
Genre: Everyone being dramatic, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Metaphors, Translation, oriental food jokes, spoilers to the Epilogue, why Oleg did what he did theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 21:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6626323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_cheshire/pseuds/luna_cheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally Oleg can have his revenge. Shame he won't use the opportunity properly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metaphorical tortures

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Метафорические пытки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615742) by [luna_cheshire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_cheshire/pseuds/luna_cheshire). 



> Sooo I was talking to the non-Russian "Major Thunder" fans and spend a whole night crying. People being so desperate to read some fanfiction they have to use Google Translate! After this long night (ok it wasn't that long, maybe the insomnia explains the insanity part that follows right after this bracket) I thought I can try translating my texts to English, I mean, why the hell not (soz, people with Google Translate, maybe it was better in this underground world without me). Unfortunately (!!!), all the short stories I could start with were a bit silly. So this is a test, and let's see how it goes (and if I can make myself translating something bigger aaaand well a bit more proper).
> 
> Many thanks, hugs, teeth and sacrificial kittens to my brave multilingual beta D. Oranus <3
> 
> ###

“That’s it,” Oleg thought with dark pleasure while going away from the sacred door in the end of the corridor. “You finally woke up, my Sleeping Beauty, and now I’ll take my revenge!”

 

“You don’t really care that much about your prisoners, do you,” Razumovsky sighed when Volkov has entered the prison cell to collect the tray he brought there filled with food half an hour ago. “Only water and a really shitty pie.”

“It’s a lavash,” immediately answered Oleg with a snarl. He collected an empty bottle from the floor and inspected it trying to find out if Razumovsky had managed to turn it into some wireless device while Oleg was away.

“Lavash, shwarma, whatever, man,” Sergey rolled up his eyes and lay down on the thin mattress Oleg brought him earlier (maybe hoping that this sign of care would at least result in some sort of gratitude) (but that was Sergey he was dealing with) (Sergey was difficult to please) (and Oleg decided not to follow this slippery mind path again). “Do you really think I went out for a dinner while this Raven God bullshit was going on?”

“Some people went missing,” said Oleg hesitantly, turning the bottle cap around and meticulously studying it just in case it magically became a smartphone. Razumovsky only waved his hand in mild annoyance.

“Do you imply ever so slightly that I ate them all? Seriously, Oleg. It’s not even funny, those people were gross.”

“Just saying,” replied Volkov innocently.

“They were ugly werewolves, for God’s sake! Ugh,” Sergey shook his head as if he was trying to get rid of the image in his head. “Volkov, you’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re an idiot,” Oleg snapped back. “Water and a shitty pie? You know nothing about artistic vision.”

Anything Sergey would want to say fell out metaphorically when he opened his mouth in surprise. Oleg continued encouraged by this sight.

“Lavash. Love-ash, you get it? The ashes of our long-perished love. It’s round like a funeral pancake — an awfully archetypal image, I should add — and it’s stale and hard just like your heart.” Volkov exasperatedly kicked away the tray, which caused a lot of noise. At least this noise filled the awkward silence in the cell. “It’s weird, but actually I thought this lavash would have your lame face burned out on it, like those Jesus toasts. Blabla, I’m so sorry, Oleg,” he said mimicking Sergey’s voice. “I’m so sorry I never learned to truly value you, but I tried to kill you instead and used you a lot, don’t worry, that’s all in the past.”

“Is it not?” asked Razumovsky quietly, turning away from Volkov. “Everything’s changed, my other self, the Bird one, it’s not around anymore... Or is it his portrait in the corner of your precious lavash as a metaphorical shadow that lay between us?”

Oleg put his hand on the handle to leave the room.

“The bottle of water presumably symbolizes you,” Sergey shot a knowing look at Volkov’s back. “Only you can restore my hard heart with your wet kisses, and the stream of your determination moves away all the stones we have on our romantic path.” He chuckled sadly. “I remember another bottle of water — the one you gave me in the helicopter saving me from another prison. You were kinder then. And simpler, you know, in a good zen way.”

Volkov froze in the doorframe — a suffering, lost shadow of a man he perhaps used to be. Most probably, it was just a clever usage of the dramatic effect provided by the corridor light.

“That was when I hadn’t been shot yet by the closest person I’ve ever had.”

“Sounds like a whiny proposal,” commented Razumovsky sarcastically. “Wipe your tears off with that lavash and pull yourself together.”

Oleg didn’t answer, and the lavash was also left untouched. Soon Sergey realized with a surprise that he actually felt bad for the words he blurted out.

“Ok, what else you’ve got?” he asked nervously, trying to fill the pause. “Any other metaphor tortures?”

“Few other meal courses,” replied Volkov automatically, and continued, looking more like his past self: “I have oppressive caviar to remind you about your betrayal of homeland... Some disgusting porridge from the Soviet recipe for the orphanages to make you feel guilty about our childhood friendship. I also have a bunch of broccoli.”

“I do actually like broccoli,” carefully remarked Razumovsky, and Volkov laughed, finally turning around to face him.

“Exactly. Only villains like broccoli.”

Oleg suddenly realized that he was smiling despite all the attempts to oppress Sergey with alienation. But Razumovsky was grinning widely in response and for the first time in a long while there was not a bit of insanity in that smile.

“I should better obey,” said Sergey brightly, making himself comfortable in the new game rules. “Then, Oleg, dear, fire me with everything you have. The sooner we finish with your cooking obsession, the sooner I can properly thank you for the great timing of being a hero for me. Don’t forget to bring some wine that would illustrate the blood you spilled from my evil heartless bullets. And condoms!” he shouted when Oleg left the room hurriedly. “They can be a neat metaphor for me being a dick,” Razumovsky laughed feeling fond of this well-known cheeky routine.

Far away the pans and pots were clanked in haste.


End file.
